She’s standing in the doorway, that look on her face: she wants to devour me. For reasons I don’t care to explain — because you’d never understand — I’m happy about this.
I’m perfectly safe. She’ll control herself, she always does; I’ll be left weak and gasping, but alive. After two hundred years of practice, she knows what she’s doing. I’m fairly sure I trust her.
But there’s still a wooden stake hidden under the pillows, where I can reach it just in case. If she knows it’s there, she’s never said anything. I guess she’s fairly sure she trusts me, too.